Chapter Fifty Two
"Why does it smell so bad in here?" Maion wonders, wrinkling her nose as she approaches the desk piled high with books, weaving around the mountains to catch a glimpse of the beautiful librarian.
Her hair is a fuzzy mess, piled high with strange cowlicks and odd frizzy bunches of curls. A scowl drags the corners of her chapped lips down, and her spectacles have slid halfway down her nose, threatening to abandon her completely.
"Is it that bad?" Metatron sighs, shoving her bangs from her face in utmost annoyance. From over the rim of a dusty textbook, she shoots Maion a piercing glare. "I've noticed it, of course, but I hadn't thought anyone else did. Smells like something died in here. Maybe something did. Or maybe that wolf just pissed itself."
"That doesn't smell like urine." Frowning, Maion drifts over to where the smell grows more potent. "But God, it does stink. You said that the demon performed some serious undead magic? Maybe it's a remnant of that."
"No…" Vaulting over her desk, Metatron wanders closer towards a particular tree, sniffing daintily. "This is the oak where the magic happens. It smells… good, actually, over here. The smell of damp earth and flowers combined. Mmm. What the hell did he do to my tree?"
"Maybe he had some sort of life switch," Maion suggests, curiously circling around the bookshelves of bird anatomy. "The Dragon King's teachings told about one not existing without the other, about all sorts of balances – and you read all these books to me about trading a soul for a soul. Maybe that's what he did, and that's what smelling so bad."
"Oh, Maion." Metatron's head lifts over a beanbag she'd been searching beneath, her eyes flat and disappointed. "I thought you were better than that. All those stories are bullshit. Life and death is in no way related to Bryon's tales. Not that the sorrow of death escapes his fables, but that's not how it works. The only thing that escapes the cycle of belligerence and benevolence is –"
"Madness." Grinning, Maion peeks at Metatron through break in the books, pleased to be reenacting a scene from one of her romantic comedies. "I'm not completely hopeless, you know."
"Bah," Metatron scolds, glancing towards the ground – Maion notices the roses blooming on her cheeks despite her callus tone and the way her feet inch slightly closer, and smiles a little broader. "You spend more time doing loop-de-loops than you do thinking. The man's probably in your mind right now, whispering things to you to help you sound smart. Try harder."
Maion's face falls, and the happy flicker of her heart dampens. "Actually, I hear he's in not such a good state…"
"What do you mean?" Metatron wonders, detecting the change in tones and trying to mask her retread by inspecting the tops of the hanging lights as best she can from her grounded position. "After that rampage, you'd think he'd be fit as a fiddle."
"He accidentally swallowed some things when he was slamming his face into the ground." Assisting Metatron's search with a golden flap of her brilliant wings, Maion shrugs. "Apparently, when he morphed back to… you know, they ruptured his stomach. Nobody's sure when he's going to be okay again, what with his exhaustion and that. Pretty sure it's all infected, too."
"Well, is he here?" Metatron wonders, cocking an eyebrow, watching Maion flutter from light to light. "I'm not an expert and I'll need a bucket, but I could probably take a look at it from afar."
"He's being flown in as we speak, Queasy," Maion teases, soaring down to poke Metatron in the stomach. "We'll just have to see."
Initially, Metatron smiles, releasing something very close to a giggle and staring up through her lashes and glasses at Maion suggestively. But then something else catches the paragon of beauty's eye.
"What was that?" Metatron whispers, reeling backwards moments after her words. Stumbling back a whole dozen feet, her back hits the end of a bookshelf. Wrapping her hands around to clutch at the books for support, Metatron pants, her eyes wild and frightened. Her glasses lie on the ground, their thick lenses refracting a short length of moonlight.
"What?" Maion inquires, watching the mask of bravery begin to crumble across her librarian's face. "Did you see something?"
"Maion…" Metatron's eyes open wide, watching as, one by one, the she-angels fly off and to who knows where. "Maion, the creature that's roaming the halls… it only attacks people who are alone, right? We're not in any danger? It wouldn't – it wouldn't?"
"Where?" Maion demands, drawing her sword, relishing in the flare of fury through her bones it provides. "Where was it?"
"On the ground…" Metatron blinks repeatedly, her lower lip quivering. "Near the… where the wolf… on the floorboards…"
Maion's heart leaps to her throat, astonished to see the quite composed woman so distraught. "What did you see, Metatron?"
"It looked like –" She blinks fearfully, glancing towards Maion with eyes as wide as moons. "It looked like hell itself. It had these eyes, these horrible – "
Metatron's pupils roll back into her head, and her knees buckle as the once-slumbering choir of Jane's mourners tip back their heads and wail in anguish.
"H-hello?" Paige tentatively calls down the hall, her heart throbbing with painful fear in her chest. Precariously, she takes a step towards the sliver of pale movement she'd glimpsed at the end of the hall, dancing before the massive window. "Who's there?"
A sensation like another's gaze on her prickles at the back of her neck. The response brings memories of a dark cave, of torches going out one by one, and of a chilling figure clothed more in shadow than silk.
"What are you doing, wandering the halls alone?" wonders the demon, his voice almost interested. "It's the middle of the night. The full moon is out. You should be safely tucked in bed."
Paige bites at her lip, edging backwards, her eyes downcast – she isn't quite certain of who this demon is, exactly, but Penryn had told her to never, never look him in the eyes, so she knows she mustn't lest she suffer some severe consequence.
"Don't be afraid." An unfamiliar softer streak enters its harsh, grating voice. "You've got nothing to fear from me. Look, I'm even wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, like some jerk from American television. So, answer my question."
"I was in his room." Paige jabs a finger towards the door she'd shut firmly behind her, a shiver going up her spine. "But… there's something wrong with Raffe. He's not himself."
"You were in Raphael's room while he was drunk?!" the demon almost shouts, sounding outraged. Paige's pulse speeds up rapidly as the white streak against the window grows swiftly closer, taking the form of a tall, lean man with a pink rose in his pocket, something she's certain she's never seen before.
"Um…" She retreats nervously as he continues to grow closer, sunglasses glinting impassively.
"Are you hurt?" he questions urgently, falling to a crouch while still a dozen feet from her. "Did he go after you? Is he still awake?"
"No…" Paige shakes her head, still inching gradually backwards. "No, he's not awake. He didn't do much. He just paced back and forth and shouted at his own reflection about how unfair everything was for a long time. I don't think he knew I was there – Bay told me to wait for Penryn to get back, and that he needed to check on something with Hugo, and that he'd be back, but he never was. And then Raffe came back and I got so scared because he was in a bad mood and Bryon said –"
Paige cuts off from her babbling with a sharp inhale, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip and focusing very hard on the floor. Her fists ball tightly. It takes her utmost concentration to keep tears from glazing her vision over.
"Hush, now," the demon whispers, his slithering voice a strange comfort in the dark of the night. "Raffe is very frightening, no? It's alright. He gets this way sometimes; you must not be afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of him." Paige winces at her own voice crack. "I'm afraid of you."
The demon quiets, as if she'd struck a nerve – he doesn't speak again for a long, long time, kneeling there, halfway shielded by darkness, his head bowed into a thinking position and his sunglasses glinting in the moonlight. Paige struggles with tears all the while. They well at the corners of her eyes, occasionally managing to slip down her porcelain cheeks. Her little fists begin to quiver with effort of stomaching sobs.
"Holding down tears will do nothing to quell your emotions," the demon advises gently, his soft tone providing marginal comfort. "Do you know your way to your sister, little lamb?"
"No!" And with that, Paige falls to her knees, collapsing before the demon. "I just want Penryn!"
And, as she weeps snottily alone in the dark hallway, covering her face with her hands, two arms as cold as ice wrap around her.
"Hush, now," the demon whispers, holding her uncomfortably against his cold chest. "Shh, shh, shh. It's alright. He's gone now. Your sister is coming. Your sister will be right here, as soon as the sun rises."
"I want her now!" Paige sobs, making little sense of her own words. "I want Penryn!"
She wraps her little arms around his neck, and, though through her veil of tears, Paige doesn't notice a thing, as she does so, he stiffens, going rigid as a board. So quickly, he relaxes, it's like he'd never tensed at all.
"Hush," the demon whispers, pulling back out of the embrace and holding her at arm's length away, despite her ongoing flow of tears. His movements are awkward and uncertain, Paige notices blearily, as if he's trying to be nice but doesn't know how to yet.
"Do you know where your sister is?" he asks, rubbing a thumb against Paige's shoulder to massage her worries.
"No," Paige sobs, despite her struggles to regain composure.
"Well, then, let's go on an adventure." Lissomely, the demon rises from his sitting position, yet still remains bent over Paige, looking into her eyes through the protecting screens of his reflective glasses. "Tonight of all nights is not a time to be wandering alone – a full moon?" He mumbles beneath his breath, almost sounding worried. "Anyhow, it won't be long before Baelan returns after realizing he left you all alone, that cur, and sounds the alarm. They'll find us, more than likely."
"But… Penryn…" Sniffling and rubbing at her nose, Paige glances towards Raffe's door. "What if she…?"
The demon fishes a hankie from his pocket and hands it to Paige, allowing her to rub her nose and dab her eyes. "I told you, lamb, she'll find us. It won't take long, I assure you. You're a very loved little girl. Come along, I know where we should start our search."
"Get the girl out of the bed."
I peak my eyes open for mere seconds, enough to realize that the tears of morning don't streak through the stained glass, before I moan and bury my face back into the pillow. Despite the awful stiffness of the dress, the blanket Emilio had provided is soft and warm, almost countering the painful punch my heart receives when my mind wanders back to the happenings of last evening.
"Daine, she needs her rest." Emilio's softly thrumming voice, quiet and only slightly resistant to the order. "This has been tough on her…"
"It's been tough on everyone, boy. Don't humiliate yourself; your leader needs you for once. Get her out of the bed."
"I can get myself out of the bed, Daine." I peer over the edges of my blanket, blinking to focus my fuzzy vision.
His ice cold eyes clap against mine. "Then do it. We've got –" His head lifts suddenly, those blue eyes focused elsewhere. "That's it, time's up. Either get out of the bed or we'll help you."
"I'm sorry," whispers Emilio, approaching me with a hand outstretched. "I stalled for as long as possible, but Bryon's injuries do reign over your own."
"It's okay." Yawning, I swing my feet off the side of the bed, declining his helping hand. "What were you going to do? I'm going back to sleep on the couch. Keep it down, okay?"
"I'm not sure that'll be possible." With his back to the moonlight brightening the air, Emilio watches me, his face drenched in shadow. "The King is being moved here, Penryn. Your uncle. With the condition he's in now – it's not good. I can't guarantee even remote silence while he's here."
"What's wrong with him?" Emilio follows me by a dozen paces as I tread slowly over to the couch, collapsing onto its uncomfortable fabric without much grace. "I mean, will he be okay?"
"He will return to full health." Emilio tilts his head to one side, eyes glittering like cold onyx. "He's suffered through worse. It's only a matter of when. There are many things that require the Dragon King's attention – the human leader's complaints about destructed properties, for one. Ariel is climbing the walls with itchiness – everything's gone too well, believe it or not, and she's going to lash out at him, always has, apparently. The demon that's infatuated with you has to deliver some sort of diplomatic news. Even I've got something of utmost importance… for his ears only."
"His ears and mine?" I offer, glancing hopefully up at him as I cocoon myself in the blanket.
"You'll find out soon enough," Emilio murmurs evasively, seeming troubled. The silver cast to his face flickers as something moves in the light trickling in through the balcony window – his sudden observant silent makes me more alert to the soft grunts and quiet commands issued under the protective shield of darkness.
Though I can't see over the back of the couch, Emilio at the foot of my couch can – he seems almost like a knight, standing there unmovingly in his black leather armor, eyes darting about intelligently. That intelligence when blended with a touch of concern sparks the fire of curiosity in my stomach – sitting up to glance over the couch's ridge, I trump my need for sleep with the necessity of answers.
My eyes widen.
It's half a dozen or so Nephilim of mixed genders, races, and sizes, all clustered around a stretcher – they walk slowly and evenly, operating under the command of Daine. The blonde doctor hovers over their shoulders, snapping quick, redundant orders at the team of people. Through the balcony doors and beyond the gently billowing curtains, a familiar four-eared wolf sits, its massive back probably what'd provided the stretcher's transportation here. So tense is the air that even Rumbbaa looks concerned – his huge eyes don't waver from their position upon the stretcher's occupant.
As my uncle's face passes in a ribbon of moonlight, I understand what the fuss is about.
His skin is pasty and wan instead of its usual golden brown undertones, and his expression vacant. Blood cakes most of his chest and still oozes out around nasty, dirty bandages, leaving a glopping trail from the balcony to Audiat's bunk bed. His bare feet are beaten up and bloody, as if he'd walked through a pit of splinters – which, considering both the wreckage he'd caused and his distance from help of any sort, he might've. The rhythmic rocking of his chest isn't so rhythmic. In fact, it's hardly constant at all, pitching wildly like an ocean at sea.
Easily the worst things of it all are his eyes. They feel as if they're too wide, wider than I've ever seen them. Instead of their usual clarity with the brilliant ring of bronze spiraling around his pupil, they're fogged and distant. A milky grey film coats the top. Specks of dust cling to the film, caught in its revolting gunk. The sightless look in those expressive eyes is terrifying in a way I can't begin to understand – quickly, I duck behind the couch again, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart.
"What the hell," I whisper fearfully.
"He's immersed in a nightmare," comes Audiat's gentle, high voice, quietly lilting from the shadows. "That's what happens to him – he doesn't have night terrors or anything." She laughs breathily, her hair bouncing in the moonlight. "It always creeped the hell out of me."
Slowly, she approaches, appearing from the shadows of a darkened corner. After gently slipping Bryon onto a bed, the Nephilim retreat backwards, tipping their heads in respect as Audiat passes. Their humble reactions to her presence are a gentle reminder that she is, indeed, a Nephilim Queen.
Audiat's walk is one of a prey animal drawing close to a slumbering predator, respectful, tentative, and frightened – but I don't believe it's a fear of him.
Even the wind quiets as she kneels slowly beside him, her gaze not quavering, and her wings stay still against her back, fitting neatly into the concave between her shoulder blades. She seems wary to do anything more than that, as if, after all this time, it doesn't feel right. With a pang in my gut, I can't help but wonder if she feels she even belongs by his side anymore. He's changed from the man I've seen in my dreams – is it possible he'd changed for the worse? Is it possible Audiat doesn't even recognize her own husband anymore?
All my worries are dashed as his head bucks backwards and his mouth spreads wide in a silent scream. His pain influences a rapid response from Audiat – she gasps and almost frantically begins to massage the contours of his face, brushing at his matted hair. She locks hands with his limp fingers and holds them against her chest.
"Hello," she whispers to him, stroking the scorched locks from his face. "Hello, Bryon."
She pauses, looking down at him in a beautiful silence. Her fingers trail over his face, and, slowly, I watch his long eyelashes sweep shut.
"Bryon." It sounds like a prayer from her lips. "I don't like the new way to pronounce your name. You will always be my Bree-aw'. Bree-aw', my big, scaly dragon." Sighing with emotion, overflowing both with joy and oncoming tears, Audiat rests her head against Bryon's wounded chest, directly over his heart.
"Your Highness." Daine cautiously approaches. "I need to examine him."
"Call me Audiat." Her lips pinch together in displeasure, and she lifts her head ever so slightly from her husband's chest. "Can you examine him around me, or do I have to move?"
"You seem to have a calming effect on him…" Daine hesitates, sighing, as if it's quite the annoyance to him. "Continue holding his hand. We'll treat its wounds last. Stay out of my way."
"I will be called by my name, but I will not be treated like a pathetic housewife," Audiat says coolly, but she shifts aside and allows room for Daine to kneel beside her.
"Apologies, miss." Daine clinically bows his head to her in a curt gesture of respect. "I realize that this must be very emotional for you. However, it will become considerably more so if we allow Bryon to bleed out."
"You're understood." Despite her official forgiveness, there still remains a hard, piqued edge in her voice that leads me to wonder if Daine's rudeness shall be grudged against, and if she'll ever truly put it behind her. "Now, Geros, I don't have any medical training myself, but an extra pair of hands for you to maneuver would prove useful, would they not?"
"Most definitely." Daine nods in understanding. "Help me remove these bandages – the humans wrapped him up in old sheets, literally. They probably infected the wounds they'd just sterilized…"
"What's up with Daine?" I whisper, assuming that Emilio's ears are as acutely sensitive as an angel's. Not that it would be too difficult for even a human to catch the words, considering he looms at the foot of the couch, but I don't want it to reach Daine's ears.
Morosely, he glances towards me with eyes tinted darker than usual. "I'll tell you later. Hush."
And so, with an air of utmost silence weighing the mood with each thick inhale, I silence, peering unto the ceremony with a neutral expression. Though I attempt to remain impassive and detached like I've seen Raffe do, the wet, sticky sound of the strip of fabric being pried off his oozing wounds brings a disgusted scowl to my face.
"Oh, God," I mutter, watching in horror as a matted strip of bandage is peeled away and handed to the waiting Nephilim. "Emilio, is there anywhere else I can spend the night?"
He hesitates, studying Audiat's windows as he picks through his thoughts. "I would offer my place if I had one, but, unfortunately, I don't. Assuming you wish to avoid awkward reunions, you could always beg upon Hugo's door. Your sister may even be home by now."
A flood of pungency billows through the air as a cold, winter breeze sweeps through the room, carrying the scent of Bryon's wounds on its gales. I wrinkle my nose and sink back into the pillows of the sofa, and nod hurriedly. "Hugo's. Sounds great. I'm going."
"I must accompany you, many apologies." Emilio stands back as I shuffle past, swaddled in the blanket, my nose buried where the reek can't reach it. He looks mildly amused with my waddle. "I suggest we hurry. He's going to start crying out in his sleep when Daine begins to poke and prod at his wounds. It's not pleasant for me, I can't imagine what it'd be like for his niece."
"Duck," Emilio instructs calmly, his hand landing on my shoulder and shoving me downwards. Over my head, a quick flash of metal gleams, followed by Hugo's apologetic yelp.
"Sorry!" he sighs, forcefully slamming one of his metal wings closed against his back, cutting open his finger on the sharp feathers in the process. Sticking his thumb in his mouth, he mutters, "'Dey've been st'ckin', da gea's. Got Bay, 'oo."
He points towards where Bay slouches against the couch, limp and obviously unconscious. I stifle a snigger at the Fallen angel – blacked out like this, he looks a bit more true to his innocent, heavenly nature when compared to the foreboding nature of his appearance.
"Have you finally got those figured out, then?" Emilio forces me down into another duck as Hugo turns away, his other wing swinging over my head. "Obviously not. You're not able to control them at all."
"I'm working on it!" Hugo snaps, ripping his thumb from his mouth. "Look at this!"
At a caterpillar's pace, they both begin to spread open, like a blossoming flower. Hugo grins triumphantly as he does so, taking great care to show us that the wings are utterly freestanding.
"I did it," he gloats. "I just need to figure out how to loosen it all up, how to move them quicker…"
"Even if you did, those wings would never fly," Emilio critiques. "You can look at diagrams of birds all day long if you should choose and you still might create nothing more than scrap metal if you've never flown. The primaries are much too long in comparison to overall wing size."
"Well, then, maybe you can offer me tips in a bit, Mr. Know It All." Hugo crosses his arms over his chest and sticks out his lower lip, seeming slightly crestfallen.
"I think they're amazing!" I praise, bunching my blanket tighter around myself to compensate for its slipping down my shoulders during our hasty ducks. "Is that what you've been working on for ages?"
Hugo nods, the excitement Emilio had sedated sparkling once more with twice the ferocity. "Yes, little burrito, it's what I've been working on. Why are you knocking on my door this late wrapped up in a blanket, by the way? And where is Paige?"
Emilio's back stiffens. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Bay is here." Hugo nods towards his passed out boyfriend. "And Paige isn't. Is she not with you?"
Just as the blood drains from my face, a gentle knock taps the doorframe. It's a soft, inquiring sort of knock, like a little heartbeat, almost.
Beside me, Hugo jumps out of his skin, knocking over a vase of flowers in the process. The crash it creates as it smashes to the floor only adds to the list of things going on, and white glass fans over the carpet like a bomb blast. He curses colorfully and kneels to pick up the glass, only managing to put scrapes on the wooden table it'd been resting on.
"Just… get the door," Emilio sighs, crouching and picking up piece by piece of the glass, his face a candid blend of annoyance and boredom.
Blushing, Hugo picks his way through the glass shards, his wool socks protecting the pads of his feet in a way that I'm exposed to. I glare bitterly at the shoes I'd politedly slipped off at the door.
Hugo creeps over to the door and twists the knob. Paige appears in the doorway, her smiling face providing holy serenity to my racing heart. Clad in a colorful jumper, she looks childlike and simple, the poster child for the perfect little girl – my heart swells. Catching my eyes, Paige walks forward, grinning joyfully, holding out her arms for a hug.
"Glass." A white streak makes my blood run cold, dashing my glee, and a pale hand settles on Paige's shoulder, halting her advancements towards me. "Careful."
Fury boils in my stomach, each new bubble of hatred exploding with more tenacity than the last. I can feel my face reddening with anger.
"What the hell did you do with my –" I take an infuriated step forwards, making the fatal mistake of forgetting about the landmines of glass embedded in the floor. Emilio sighs loudly as I leap backwards in more surprise than pain, stepping on more glass in the process.
"Don't say I didn't warn you!" Lucius lilts, raising an eyebrow over his reflective shades. "Glass." He spreads his arms in explanation. "Careful."
Murderously, I begin to quiver, cursing my helplessness. More than anything, I envy Pooky Bear and her power to cut Lucius and anyone else into sushi. One of the most powerful men I know has already stolen one of my babies from me – this goddamned demon pervert isn't going to make off with Paige. I shoot daggers at him, unable to move without causing a new torrent of blood to spout from my heels.
"What did you do with her?" I hiss, baring my teeth at him. "Why did you kidnap my sister?"
Shadows dancing elegantly over his face, Lucius smirks, glancing down towards Paige. "I win. Cash up."
Her worried expression morphs into disappointment, and, pouting, she digs in the pockets of her outfit. Sighing miserably, Paige hands Lucius a Smartie roll – he snatches it from her hand victoriously, chuckling as the wrapper crinkles and he unfurls his prize.
To my immense surprise, Paige sticks her lip out at me, making sad kitten eyes. My mouth drops open, and I silently plead for an explanation as Lucius pops one of the candies into his black, fanged mouth, tipping his head back with a small grunt of pleasure.
"I bet that you wouldn't blame him," Paige explains, sounding bummed. "He bet that you would. He's got my Smartie now."
"The deal was for a Smartie." Crunching contentedly down on his little tablet, he hands her the roll of candies. "I've had my Smartie, the rest are yours. Always respect a deal, little lamb."
Where is Raphael?
Audiat's head rears from Bryon's chest, jarring her abruptly from the confines of sleep. The patches dappling her face where Bryon's boiling flesh had been heating her skin now feel exposed, naked, in the night chill. Audiat shoots to her feet, shaking her head to clear it, and whips her gaze around. No one can be seen.
"Who are you?" Audiat whispers, straining her ears to hear the sound of a life somewhere out in the darkness.
The only heartbeat is Bryon's.
A slightest flicker of movement catches her eye – Audiat whips around to where the moonlight streams in through the open balcony doors. Her first thought is that the Nephilim had been highly inconsiderate, leaving the doors open and allowing the frosty breezes to rustle around her room. The second is that, perched on the banister, sitting still amongst the rippling, translucent curtains, is an eerie silhouette.
Chills rifle through Audiat's feathers. She sinks back to the ground, looping her hand through Bryon's stiff, unmoving one.
On the still, erect figure, two eyes can be seen – but not on the figure itself. On its shadow. There, on the ground, are two eyes, one tinged blue and the other almost having a metallic hue. At first, Audiat is uncertain, but a slow, lethargic blink causes the eyes to wane and wax like terrifying crescent moons.
"What do you want?"
I will not repeat my question. Its tail dangles beneath it, twisting in the wind like a strip of silk, and, on its black face, the pure ivory of a madman's smile spreads over the shadow, broad and reaching from ear to ear. I have other methods. Do not stall.
In his sleep, Bryon begins to growl, his lips peeling back. The entire bed trembles with his ferocity. Surprised, Audiat glances towards him, wondering with a flutter of hope that he might awaken – however, he quiets just as suddenly as he'd erupted, without any true signs of progress.
When Audiat sheepishly glances over her shoulder at the shadow, frightened of what she may find awaiting her, nothing more than the shiver of the flailing curtains greets her.
Tremors rock Audiat's body. Glancing around fearfully at the dark, not able to muster the courage to creep out of the nook and shut the balcony doors, she slips into Bryon's bed beside him. Curling up with the blankets around her and her face turned outwards, Audiat scoots closer against his motionless body, silently vowing to protect him from the shadows themselves. As she swallows down her primal fear, Audiat yearns for nothing more than her Bryon back. Again she anxiously longs for his arms to wrap around her and burn all the shadows away.
"Oh, uh."
In the corner of my vision, I see Hugo suddenly pivot from the ajar position he'd opened the door to, closing it to just a sliver. From over the lip of my tea mug, I inspect the nervous twitch of his back muscles – though whether it's from the one that'd been knocking upon his door at such an hour or the stress of holding his metal wings for ages upon his shoulders is a question I don't know the answer to.
"Look, it's a little busy in here," Hugo apologizes. "Another time, eh?"
And it is, indeed, quite busy, and bustling with society. An electric fireplace Bay had stolen from an old house while at the human camp blazes before me, around it clumping Emilio and a few of his Nephilim friends. They speak in hushed voices and expertly combine the spices and herbs to create delicious teas held in each of their hands. Around my feet curls Paige, frightened after her midnight ordeal with a drunk Raffe and exhausted after all her excitement of seeing Emilio alive and well again. Bay sits shamefully beside her, sheltering us with one of his sleek black wings.
Although it hadn't been his fault Hugo had clubbed him upside the head with one of his metal wings and efficiently knocked him out for many an hour, his guilt seems permanently stamped onto his expression with every sheepish glance up towards me or down towards Paige. I had initially been pissed that he'd left Paige alone at all, but now, with my baby safe from Raffe, it's water under the bridge, and I'm at ease with reclining around with this eclectic group of friends.
In a dark corner of the room, even Lucius paces back and forth, speaking in a quiet, barely audible voice into the muzzle of a phone. He holds it oddly, I realize, watching him – it's a very fine-fingered position, using only his dainty fingertips, and not allowing the phone's surface to brush hair nor cheek. For whatever reason, he's got a rose in his suit now, but it's wilted and dying, its once-pink petals fringed with sable.
"You need to keep it down," husks a sleepy voice from the other side of the door. "You're… you're… keeping people up. Angels."
At the sound of Raffe, Emilio and his two buddies silence immediately, their eyes all blowing wide. Hands fly to weapons at their belts just as my legs squeeze Paige in a hug. Both of the warriors glance towards Emilio for reassurance, for guidance, so I follow their example. After all, only Emilio seems at ease with the situation. Calmly giving his warriors a hand signal that relaxes their constricting grips around the necks of their swords, he briefly meets my eyes, his gaze holding a cool warning. He's prepared for the worst should the worst happen.
"Oh, well, very sorry." Hugo laughs nervously. "Have fun with the alcohol. We'll… keep things quieter. That way, you won't be able to hear us through the ceiling. Wouldn't that be nice? Okay? Okay. G'bye."
"Penryn?" he calls into the room, sounding startled, as if he hadn't expected to find me here. My hands tighten around the mug of tea in panic, and I find a sudden interest in the faux glow of the flame. Tears cling to the lump in my throat, threatening to break over me like an ocean wave. I hover protectively over Paige and refuse to glance his way.
"Penryn…" He shoves Hugo aside with one nudge of his forearm, sparking indignation from Bay, and prowls into the room, eyes narrowed… but not focused on me as I'd expected. His expression is one of awe, of drunken disbelief. "Penryn, what's going on? Is that…?"
"Yes, that." Emilio shrugs helplessly. "That was what I wanted to speak with Bryon about. Keep the balcony doors locked. Don't let her inside. It wouldn't be good for anyone. What – hey, hey! Hey, where are you –"
A blast of cold air ripples through the room as Raffe swings the balcony doors open.
I had to cut out drunk Raffe scenes, and that makes me sad.
POLL: Emilio's never truly been assigned a rank other than Bryon's little assistant, but how high do you believe he would really be placed in a hierarchy situation?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh